


Ferryman

by blackcricket



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, I wrote this for my little brother don't judge, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcricket/pseuds/blackcricket
Summary: Here among the denizens of the Underworld, his skeleton framework does not need to be disguised. Here among the dark, his wrath can gleam outward without fear of evaporating an unsuspecting mortal.
Kudos: 8





	Ferryman

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stress enough how much I never intended to write this. But I'm going through a posting binge and need to stop thinking about the stuff I haven't posted, so here internet, have this monstrosity.

Sans is running late for work.

To be fair, this is a firmly established habit. Indeed, he would still be abed, if not for yesterday's dressing down from the almighty Lord Asgore of the Underworld. The idea was that arriving early, if only for today, would be precisely the calculated gesture required to show he was taking the reprimand seriously; and get the boss off his back.

Judging by the traffic block up, that calculated gesture is not going to happen. Before him, the Underworld sprawls; jewelled buildings towering upward, rocky columns curving along the obsidian streets. Monsters and dead alike wander busily here. Flickering billboards proclaim Metaton's latest on-screen sensation, while Olympus newspapers flutter, stained and damp, through the gutters.

From where he is trapped amidst the crowds, Sans catches sight of the headline. The ink is splattered across the pages, images and boot prints soaking through, yet still the words shudder through him. Decipherable across a thousand worlds, and in a billion languages.

Chara is making a name for themself up there.

Nemesis.

Distributor of Fortune. One from whom there is no escape.

A monster skitters past, spindly legs flailing, and gutter water douses the paper into nonsense.

Sans walks onward. Slumped forward; hands in the pockets of his hoodie, he allows himself to be jostled by the crowd. Here among the denizens of the Underworld, his skeleton framework does not need to be disguised. Here among the dark, his wrath can gleam outward without fear of evaporating an unsuspecting mortal.

Before, he never anticipated scoring a steady job. Aside from the constant gloom, and occasional condescending altercation, it's not a bad lot. If only he didn't have to get up in the mornings . . .

With a clatter of bones meeting pavement, a hand clamps onto Sans's shoulder. "Hey, Sans! Just checking in on my little fatalist—"

Sans sighs, and tries to pull his hood lower. "How many times do I have to remind you that I'm older—"

"Everyone knows that already, bro!" Papyrus shouts, several monsters scrambling to escape the winged messenger's boisterous vicinity. "I just choose to ignore it!"

"That is not how things work, Pap."

Papyrus slings an arm across Sans's shoulders, grinning cheerfully down at him. "Tell me how the world works then, big bro! How long has it been since you went topside, wait—" he cuts himself off, all teasing vanished. "Have you been travelling Above without me?"

Sans stares at him.

Papyrus pouts. "You know I want to show you around, take you to the beach, swing by Alyph's laboratory, steal spider-cider from Muffet . . ."

"That reminds me, what do you call an undercover spider?"

"No, no, no!" Papyrus shrieks, his unreasonable jealousy temporarily forgotten. "We are not falling down this hole, I refuse—"

"A spy-der? Get it?"

Papyrus cringes, his entire body folding into itself. "No, the plague of this horror is too much for my sensitive soul."

Sans snorts. "Sensitive? You're a bull in a china shop."

"Excuse you!" Papyrus shouts. "I am a delicate—"

"Literal god."

"—friend of the wind—"

"Who insists constant travel is perfectly normal."

"—whose only concern is my older, though not taller, brother."

Sans shakes his head. "Sometimes, you're so infantile."

Papyrus flares with outrage; a hand slapping against his costume armour. "Do you want to be dropped off at the river or not?"

"Is that why you're here?"

Arms crossing stubbornly, Papyrus refuses to meet his gaze. " . . . maybe. You can't prove anything."

"You brought it up."

"No you did!"

"You."

"You!"

"You."

"You!"

"You—" Sans pinches himself. It is a sliver of sensation; pain a distant memory. "Just fly us there already."

Papyrus sniffs, scarf fluttering. "Fine!" He shouts, offering a hand to Sans.

"Fine," Sans says, taking it.

And then Papyrus steps out into the air.

Flying is like nothing Sans remembers from when he was alive. Humanity may have advanced in technology but airplanes and VR have nothing on his brother's winged sneakers.

Below, the hordes of the Underworld writhe. Discontent with their jobs; wrathful at the judgement placed upon their heads. It makes Sans want to laugh and mourn all at once. Humanity was once so beautiful.

He thinks that ended when Chara was born.

Even the smallest human can change the world, that's what they teach children up there. It's also what they burn out of adults, but no one talks about that. No one talks about how the world is engineered to encourage—and then break your spirit. Children are kept from this reality for as long as possible—but some catch glimpses of it. Some witness the depravity; the hidden horrors that lurk.

And in response, they build armour.

They take perseverance and integrity, patience and kindness, justice and bravery, and enough determination to hold the sky on their shoulders—and they lock it all away behind the glacial frustration of their disappointment.

Children are supposed to be the foundation of humanity; to light the darkness with their curiosity. Instead, they end up here, amidst the dead.

With a clatter of limbs, Papyrus alights up the ground. Sans lets go of his arm, brushes stray cobwebs and glitter from his hoodie with a distracted hand.

"Thanks, Pap."

"Don't think you can avoid that conversation forever!" Papyrus shouts after him. "I will take you Above one of these days!"

Sans only waves a hand over his shoulder. His eyes are on the river; on the damned souls awaiting judgement. At the front of the crowd stands a small child in a striped shirt and blue shorts. They stand on the bank, legs splattered with mud; the toes of their boots mere inches away from the river.

It's just another day, Sans tries to remind himself. It's just one more child.

The lie tastes like dying.


End file.
